Page 3 of Back Outside Edge

He shakes his head, almost like a dog trying to shake off water. Annoyed with my response, maybe? “Sorry,” he says. Ok, maybe just trying to sort himself out after a long day of travel. I understand that.

"No worries." I force out another chuckle. This time, it's a little more real. "We haven't run into each other for a couple of years, have we? I've been lucky, not having to compete against you." I like competing against skaters better than me; it’s how I challenge myself. Stefan, however—he's intense, a league of his own. Everyone's a little bit terrified to go up against him.

And to be honest, he's not wrong. I shouldn't be here. The only reason I'm at Worlds this year is because the Canadian national gold medalist fell and busted his knee three weeks ago.

"How’d you qualify?" He doesn't sound mean, just confused and tired and yes, annoyed, despite my attempts to smooth things over. Why does he care? Did he suddenly become the figure skating inquisition?

I hike myself further up the bed. Having this conversation lying down is starting to feel like it’s putting me at a disadvantage. Except now I’m bare-chested in front of him, so it might have been a terrible idea. What is it about being half naked that makes me feel vulnerable? "I got silver at Nationals this year."

I have no doubt that, under his loose, wrinkled travel clothes, his body is sheer perfection. Nobody can practice as much as he’s rumored to do and not have the build of an angel. Blue eyes, blond hair, and built like a pencil, with what have to be long, lean, gorgeous muscles doubtless putting my chest to shame. It's the only way he can manage the insane revolutions he does in his jumps. He’s a figure straight out of mythology.

And I’m lying in bed in front of this paragon of perfection and hotness, stripped down to my boxers.

"Did you make it to the Circuit Championships?" He still sounds abrupt.

I smile yet again, still trying to ease the tension. "One of them. Didn't make the finals, obviously. I saw your performance; it was amazing." Olive branch, olive branch, please take the olive branch. We have to sleep together tonight.

Not together. In the same room. Oh God, why am I thinking of sleeping together with Stefan?

Now the idea has entered my brain, it's stuck. I can't stop picturing those long, long limbs twined around mine. That head of curly hair pressed against my chest. Oh, God. Bad Evan, bad. Down, boy. He's the man who's going to win Worlds this year, and I'm a relative nobody.

Not to mention, I don't even know his sexuality. Impressive, considering the amount of media scrutiny he gets. I can’t remember a single picture of him with a date.

"Thanks." It sounds offhand, like he doesn't register compliments anymore. His eyes narrow more, and maybe it’s more than annoyance. Is he furious at me for some reason?

I've answered all of his questions. I've been as polite as humanly possible. He can't know the thoughts going through my head about his body. Well, assuming he can’t actually see into my soul.

"I guess I didn't catch your performance. Sorry," he adds.

Ok, that's more than I expected. Maybe he is slightly less mad at me than he looks? "No worries."

We stare at each other through another long pause, and I don't rush to fill it. I can practically see the gears whirring in his head as he thinks. "Did you know you were going to be my roommate?"

It's another abrupt question, fired at me, almost accusatory. I'm still doing my best to appease the beast, so I shrug as nonchalantly as I can and give him another little smile. "I knew I'd have a roommate."

"Do you often have roommates from other countries?""

Of course I don't. “No, but I don't think it's unusual when hotels are full or a country only sends one skater." Not that either of our countries are in that position. Not by a long shot.

"Huh." A noncommittal response. He stares at me for another minute, then turns and starts rustling through his bags. I guess I'm dismissed. Fine.

A couple minutes later, he goes into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. Nice, Stefan, real nice.

Whatever; not my problem. I slide back down in the bed and turn away, facing the window. Since I left a crack in the curtains when I drew them, at least I can focus on something other than the near naked, supremely hot man in the next room. Laying down, I'm too low to see much of Frankfurt, just some rooftops and ambient light hiding the stars, but that’s ok. What I saw of it from the hotel shuttle was beautiful.

When Stefan leaves the bathroom, he shuts the door softly and is so silent as he walks to his bed he might be tiptoeing. Guess he’s decided to play nice after all, or showers are the key to calming him down.

His breathing evens out seconds after he's down. How did he go to sleep so quickly? And why am I so attuned to him I can tell?

Worse, why can't I stop thinking about him lying a few feet away wearing nothing but a pair of boxers? Or nothing. What does he wear to bed? Oh God, what does he look like without clothes on? I can't stop picturing the chest my imagination has conjured up. The strong thighs he has to have to do what he does. A long, smooth cock to match his physique. Oh, God.

Why can't I force the pictures out of my head? And damn my body for responding to them so whole-heartedly.

Is it worth sneaking to the bathroom, discreetly working through the inconvenient hard-on I’ve been saddled with since he reappeared at our door? No; I’ll survive. I’m an adult, damn it. I don’t have to succumb to my hormones.

Unfortunately, when my alarm goes off, far too early, those hormones jump right back into the game. Damn it. What are the things I used to think about to get it down on command? Cold weather. Blizzards. My quad loop, the jump I can’t do consistently no matter how many times I practice it. I combine them. Maybe I need more than one turn-off at once. My quad loop on my home pond during a blizzard. No luck.

Stefan's alarm went off at the same time, and when I glance his way, he’s staring at me. Crap. Please don’t notice the tent in my blankets. I clear my throat before waving toward the bathroom door, trying to be casual about it. "Uh, go ahead. It's all yours."